


Silver-haired Stark

by pandizzy



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, F/M, they are a family
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-15
Updated: 2018-04-15
Packaged: 2019-04-23 10:29:50
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,321
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14330532
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pandizzy/pseuds/pandizzy
Summary: The gods were cruel by giving her a silver-haired daughter. Why couldn’t Alys be like Lyanna, with her father’s dark brown curls and his stormy gray eyes? Why couldn’t she be like Sansa as a child, having the red locks of her Tully grandmother and the watery eyes of the Riverlands?





	Silver-haired Stark

**Author's Note:**

> I wanted this piece to be bigger and nicer but I was too lazy to actually write all the scenes that I wanted so this is all we have. I might write more and have it as some missing scenes or I might turn this into a series, I still haven't decided.
> 
> So, although the children have the same names as Silent Night, Day 2 and 3 from the drabble fest, I don't actually see it as something in the same universe cause Jon and Sansa don't know about R + L = J they just married to cement his claim to the throne and so his first male child would have an undoubted claim. No biggie.
> 
> I don't know why they don't know, it's just something that ocurred to me when I was talking to Ari (theeaglegirl) about this and she assumed nobody actually knew so I thought why not?

Sansa strokes Alys’ silver hair, her pale cheek and tries not to be afraid. It’s hard, she thinks, being so afraid that her whole body freezes, that she can do nothing but stay still and hold her daughter tightly. She thought she knew what fear was, staring as a child to so many monsters who wished her dead, but true fear was one of a mother, a mother accused of the worst crime a wife could commit.

 

“Are you sure of your accusations, my lord?” asks Arya, her face murderous, but she doesn’t strike much fear while holding little Eddard in her arms.

Jon is not looking at her, his dark gaze set on lord in front of them. Sansa can see the pure agony on his face, how even looking at her, looking at their daughter hurts. She feels like crying, just letting herself be weak for a second as her husband stares at the man who accuses her of betraying him and their bloodline. He is quiet, not having said a word ever since the arrival of Lord Karstark and his body is rigid, tense.

 

“Yes,” says Harrion.

 

Alys looks between them, blinking her big violet eyes at her parents and sucking her thumb. She is too young to understand what is happening, how her very existence puts them all in danger.

 

Sansa still remembers the look on Maester Wolkan’s face once he cleaned Alys after her birth and saw her silver locks, how the painful shock marred his old face. Her mind often drifted to how Arya looked at her niece with strange and confused eyes, perhaps attempting to recognize another man in the little girl. Her sister and good Maester kept their beliefs to themselves but it was as clear as the day what they thought. Only a blind man couldn’t see it.

  
Lord Karstark and so many others thought the same once they met the little girl, seeing her eyes, her skin and other details that made her so unlike the other royal children. They thought Sansa had betrayed their king and sired a child with another man, trying to pass the babe as Jon’s and failing miserably.

 

But Sansa did no such of thing. She knew that Alys was as much of Jon’s seed as Brandon and Robb and Lyanna and Eddard and that might have been enough had Lord Karstark not decide to be bold and voice what everyone else thought.

 

If he had his way, Sansa and her daughter would be long dead by now. It was what happened to a woman who betrayed her husband, the punishment to someone who put an entire bloodline in danger.

 

“Who are you accusing of being the father?” asks Jon and his voice is strain. Sansa releases a breath she didn’t even know she was holding and gasps for air. She can’t breath.

 

Her throat burns from holding in all of her tears and she wants to cry, to fuss and to scream. She wants to turn into a wolf and take her pup away to a den where she can be safe. She wants to be weak, just for a moment, if only to leave this place where she is accused of treason and Jon does not even _look_ at her.

 

Sansa wore her hair down that day and so, as she kisses Alys’ face and cheeks, she allows the red tresses to fall from her shoulders and hide her daughter as best as she can.

 

“Jaime Lannister, my king,” answers Harrion.

 

Jaime Lannister had golden hair, not silver, but he had stayed in Winterfell for two moons a year before Alys’ birth and for the northern lords, silver and gold must be the same. In their eyes, he was the only option. Truth would not come to them. Truth would not come to any of them.

 

The gods were cruel by giving her a silver-haired daughter. Why couldn’t Alys be like Lyanna, with her father’s dark brown curls and his stormy gray eyes? Why couldn’t she be like Sansa as a child, having the red locks of her Tully grandmother and the watery eyes of the Riverlands?

 

Was it a test? It felt like a test.

 

Silently, a strong and familiar and takes her own. A rush of relief washes over Sansa as someone holds her fingers, the tears streaming down her face as she is _finally_ able to breath. It’s a rough hand, a warrior hand. Jon’s hand.

 

He doesn’t believe in the accusations, then. He believes in _her_.

 

They are too ridiculous, Sansa notices. Jaime Lannister would never father a bastard with a woman he didn’t love and he loved no one but his dead sister.

 

Brandon looks between his parents, standing next to Jon. He is old enough to understand what is happening, the danger that they are in. Sansa wishes he was still young, like Lyanna who is rocking on her heels or Robb who is not even there, probably hiding somewhere in the godswood. He shouldn’t have to hear someone accuse his mother of betraying his father.

 

“The queen is innocent, my lord, and Princess Alys is my daughter,” murmurs Jon, highly, “You must see reason.”

 

He is strong, Sansa notices, and terrifying. Brandon once told her that, sometimes, he was afraid of his father, of his greatness. Sansa had dismissed this as nothing but a child’s folly, but now she sees the truth in his words. Jon _is_ scary, able to cast fear in someone’s heart.

 

Harrion blinks, his dark and small eyes covered with something strange. His expression is unreadable, but his large and broad shoulders are tense.

 

“You have grown attached to the girl, I understand,” he comments, nodding along with his words, “You do not wish for her to grow up a bastard.”

 

“She is no bastard!” says Jon, angry. Alys whimpers and squirms in Sansa’s arms. “Believe my words.”

 

“Look at her, your grace, and you will see how I speak truthfully.”

 

“Harrion, we have never met my mother,” murmurs Jon, “For all we know, Alys could look like her.”

 

“You’re a fool, my king,” says Harrion, “You allow your love for the queen to cloud your judgement and to make you claim the girl as your own.”

 

Sansa blinks, surprised at his words. The northern lords are bolder than most, believing that to serve their king loyally they must speak their mind, but still. None have ever been as bold as Harrion Karstark.

 

Jon swallows and blinks. Sansa holds her breath. She should say something, do anything that might help their case but she can’t think straight. He lets go of Sansa’s hand and rises from his chair, towering over them all. His expression is serious, stone cold. He refuses to wear a crown, but now, looking down at one of their vassals, he looks as kingly as the first Aegon.

 

“I will not allow you to stand there and insult me, my queen and my daughter,” he says, breathing hard and deep, “Leave, my lord, and never return.”

 

“You shouldn’t this, my king. You should listen to me.”

 

“Leave, Harrion. I will not say it again.”

 

When Lord Karstark leaves, a weight is lifted off of Sansa’s shoulders. She dries her tears as best as she can with her sleeve and hugs Alys tightly.

 

It’s not ever yet. The North remembers and Harrion would return.

 

Jon sits again, sighing and touching his forehead with his hand. Sansa opens her mouth to say something, to thank him for trusting her, but Alys acts before her, babbling and throwing her tiny body forward in an attempt to go to her father. Jon opens his eyes and sees her, his shoulder instantly loosening.

 

His strong and rough hands take her from Sansa’s lap, bringing the girl to his own. He rocks her slightly.

 

“What am I going to do with you, pup?” Jon asks, smiling.


End file.
